


Saddle up and ride

by rivers_bend



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Barebacking, Established Relationship, M/M, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Nick's shirt is almost see-through, and Harry really <i>really</i> likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saddle up and ride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [no_detective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/no_detective/gifts).



> the obvious: I do not know any of the people whose public personas are used in this story and do not believe nor mean to imply this actually happened. 
> 
> thank you to vae for helping weed out my Americanisms. any remaining mistakes are entirely mine.

After an endless tour and a week at his Mum’s, Harry’s been back in London four days. It’s Saturday night, August bank holiday, and he and Nick had debated the merits of staying in or going out, but this morning Nick’s phone alarm went off to remind him he’d agreed to do a favor for an old friend, DJing a party in Vauxhall. Harry’s tired, sure, but he has the rest of the month off and has no desire to let Nick out of his sight, so he goes with him. “What should I wear?” Harry asks, because he likes to blend in with the crowd nights Nick’s working, and Vauxhall could be anything from trackies to the new Burberry shirt he’s not got a chance to wear yet. Plus, he likes when Nick dresses him. 

“T-shirt and jeans,” Nick says, like he’s not really paying attention, but he’s already heading toward the basket of clean clothes in the corner, something specific in mind. “This,” he says, holding up one of the white tees that Harry is actually pretty sure started out as Zayn’s. The neck is a lot higher than Harry ever buys, covering even the tips of his birds’ wings, and it’s not nearly long enough for him, but it seems to be Nick’s new favorite, so Harry holds out his hand for it. 

“What are you wearing?” Harry asks as he shucks off Nick’s borrowed too-big cardigan and the vest with Niall’s face on he wore to lunch with Finchy just to see if he could get him to blush. (He couldn’t, but Nick managed it by accusing him of staring at Harry’s nipples, even though they were totally hidden.)

“And you should wear those jeans from Thursday night,” Nick adds, ignoring Harry’s question. 

Thursday was the night Harry didn’t quite make it out of his clothes before Nick made him come teasing the head of his cock with one finger and talking dirty in his ear. “Did you do washing?” Harry asks.

“Nope.” Nick gives Harry his filthiest grin. 

“Ew,” Harry says. “You’re a pervert.” But he’s gonna wear them, and Nick knows he’s gonna wear them, and the fact that Harry knows Nick knows makes him palm his dick a little. 

“Yes, _I’m_ the pervert.” Nick wraps his hands around Harry’s waist, pulling him close enough to kiss. 

It takes a while, since Nick has trouble letting go of a half-naked Harry once he’s got him, but they do get dressed and out the door in time for Nick’s gig, Harry in the clothes Nick picked out—though Harry did rub at the more obvious jizz stains with damp fingers, in case of UV lights in the club—and Nick in skinny dark-blue jeans and a t-shirt Harry’s never seen before but hopes to see again. 

He doesn’t fully appreciate it until they’re in the street waiting for a taxi and Nick’s hit with passing headlights. In the dim of the one lamp Nick leaves on when they go out, it just looked a wash-faded grey, a nice drape over his shoulders, sure, but nothing overly exciting. When the light catches it, though, it turns nearly see-through, showing the patch of hair over Nick’s pecs Harry can’t get enough of rubbing his face on, the darker line leading down to his cock. 

“Nice shirt,” Harry says, resisting pawing at Nick only because he’d caught the glint of a lens behind the window of a car parked across the street when they came up the stairs from Nick’s flat. 

Apparently the pawing would have helped get across his meaning, though, because Nick says, “Whatever. It’s comfy. No one’s gonna be watching me anyway; booth’s behind a giant pillar this place.” 

Before Harry can explain that he wasn’t being sarcastic, the taxi pulls up and they’re distracted getting in. Harry resists pawing Nick in the back of the cab as well, but he does get the hem of the shirt between thumb and fingers, feels the soft give of the fabric, how thin it is, can’t help thinking about Nick getting shoved in a paddling pool once on telly when Harry was still in school, having to present the rest of the afternoon with his white shirt clinging to his chest. Harry has very fond memories of that day. Sometime he’ll have to tell Nick about it. 

“You ready, popstar?” Nick murmurs, kissing the corner of Harry’s jaw as the cab pulls up in front of the club. 

“There aren’t going to be secret strippers, are there?” Harry’s been wary of Nick asking if he’s ready since his birthday when he thought he was supposed to be ready for cake and ended up with a mostly naked stranger on his lap while Nick laughed his arse off. 

“No secret strippers, but if you’re lucky they’ve still got the go-go cages. Club’s had a refit since I was here last, but those should’ve been keepers.” 

Sometimes it’s weird how much of Nick’s life happened before Harry started hanging out with him, years and years of clubbing and back rooms and bars while Harry was studying and watching telly and the most exciting thing that ever happened was when White Eskimo would get to play a wedding and not just school assembly. From the rainbow flag in the window of this place, Harry’s guessing the go-go cages featured boys, and he wonders how many of them ended up vying with Henry for the kettle in the morning while Nick stayed in bed feigning sleep hoping the guy’d get bored and go home. More than one, he bets. 

“You sure they want you to DJ and not dance?” Harry says. “Because I’d pay to see that.” 

“No one wants to see me dance, Harold.” 

Harry lays his hand on the ghost of chest hair he can see through Nick’s shirt under the streetlight. “Wrong,” he says. “I definitely want to see that.” 

After squeezing Harry’s hand for a split second, Nick pulls it away from his chest and walks past Harry toward the club door. “Only so you can mock me and send video to Finchy for blackmail purposes.” 

“Of course,” Harry says. “No other reason makes sense.”

Nick flashes his tongue in Harry’s direction, and then he’s greeting the bouncer, and they’re headed in. 

Whatever pillar used to hide the DJ is gone now, leaving the decks behind nothing more than a low smoked-glass wall, and the whole thing is on a raised platform in the corner, lit by the same sweeping spots that criss-cross the stage where boys in bootie shorts and caterpillar boots are shaking their junk. Seems the go-go cages have disappeared, and the pretty boys get to mingle now. 

Harry takes a spot by the bar; Nick goes back to get the lay of the land while the first DJ finishes her set. She’s not someone Harry recognizes, though she reminds him a little of older pictures of LMC he’s seen, shock of blonde hair over one eye, white t-shirt a lot like Harry’s own, low-slung jeans with a wide belt holding them up just below where her hips curve out from her waist. She gives Nick a wink and pulls her headphones down, presenting her ear for him to say whatever it is he’s saying. Nick gestures and she nods, and then scrambles her ‘phones back on, fading the current track into the next. 

When the song finishes, a guy in a shiny blue jacket comes out and gropes a few of the dancers, thanks the woman who’s been spinning, and introduces Nick with a joke about old times and coming back and slumming it. Nick blows him a kiss and flips him off and then launches his set with Aqua, because this is apparently the kind of night where Barbie Girl’s a floor filler. 

If his boys were here, Harry might dance, but they’re not, and he’s just fine drinking and watching. What he ends up watching is how half the people in the club can’t keep their eyes off Nick. Which, that’s a thing Harry can relate to. He’s always hot, but there’s something about how he concentrates when he’s working that makes Harry want to push into his space and knock him off balance or kneel at his feet and gaze at him for hours; he can never quite decide which, though neither is really appropriate, so that might be just as well. It’s not even the kind of place Harry can lurk in the dark behind the booth, so he holds his place at the bar. 

Nick’s set is about an hour, and in that time Harry accepts four drinks and turns down three offers of _a good time_ in the toilets, and doesn’t miss how every time his eyes flick to the booth when he declines, the other guy’s follow his and linger. Nick notices too, giving Harry a complicated look that he’s pretty sure means _you can if you want to, but I know you don’t want to and that makes me happier than I’m prepared to tell you._ Harry might be reaching a little there, but he doesn’t think so. The third guy to offer, when he sees Harry’s look, extends the offer to Nick as well, and Harry might actually consider it if the guy hadn’t started his play with, “You’re Harry Styles off that One Direction band, right?” Threesomes are one thing, but Harry’s learned to avoid starfuckers. 

Besides, he’s not actually sure how good he’d be at sharing Nick when he’s just been away so long. Or, really, he’s quite sure, and, _no_.

“No, thanks,” Harry says again to the guy, who shrugs, mutters something Harry’s pretty sure is, “Your loss,” and heads toward the go-go stage. 

The last song Nick plays is “Kiss You,” which makes Harry grin and glare at the same time, and makes half the club rush to the floor and the other half rush off it. The half that runs on are screaming and waving their hands in the air though, plus, sold-out world tour, so Harry can’t be mad about a handful of hipster club queens. 

Still, “You’re an arsehole,” he tells Nick once Nick’s handed over to the next DJ and come to join Harry for a drink. 

“Best song of the night,” Nick says, pointing at Harry’s mostly empty pint and indicating to the bartender that he’d like two more. “Well, ‘cept maybe Aqua. Or JT. Or—“

“Shut it,” Harry says, but he’s laughing, leaning into Nick’s side, letting his arm rub the thin fabric of Nick’s shirt. Nick never lets Harry get up himself, and that, more than any number of times Nick tells him he’s gorgeous or laughs at his stupid jokes, makes Harry feel loved. 

Watching Harry’s face, Nick takes a gulp of his beer, and another, but then puts it back down. “C’mon, popstar. Let’s go home.” 

*  
Harry holds his phone in both hands in an effort to keep them to himself while the cabbie goes on and on about how great it is to be driving Harry Styles and Nick Grimshaw in his cab, and his kids aren’t going to believe it, and would they mind signing something for the oldest one, and maybe his sister, and actually, all five of them would love something, even the three year old, though she can’t read and doesn’t listen to the Breakfast show, and Niall’s her favorite anyway. Nick’s hand is pressed between the small of Harry’s back and the seat, and he’s talking to the driver like he’s not trying to wriggle his little finger down into Harry’s crack. When he succeeds, he gives Harry a smirk, so Harry texts him: _you’re evil and I hate you ;P_. 

Nick doesn’t take his hand away to check his phone, and Harry realises that’s probably because he could see Harry typing it. Flaw in his plan. At least they’re almost home. 

 

By the time they get inside, Harry is done waiting. He lets Nick put his keys on the table inside the door, but pushes him toward the bedroom when he starts to veer toward the sofa.  
   
“I see,” Nick says, and Harry growls back, “You don’t see. You have no idea what you looked like up there tonight. Need you to fuck me, _now_.”  
   
Nick turns, walks backwards, hands moving to the hem of his t-shirt.  
   
“Leave that on,” Harry says. He wants to touch it more, do all the things he’d wanted to do in the taxi and couldn’t, all the things he’s wanted to do all night. Wants to get Nick sweaty, watch how it gets more see-through. Wants to come all over it. “Yeah,” Harry says, not even meaning to speak aloud.  
   
“Bossy,” Nick says, but he doesn’t _really_ sound like he’s complaining. Then Harry’s getting naked and Nick makes a sound that does not sound like complaining _at all._ Nick manages to get his jeans undone and pushed down to mid thigh before Harry pushes him onto the bed.  
   
“Gonna ride you, yeah?” Harry asks. Says. He’s not really expecting Nick to say no.  
   
“Help if I got my pants off,” Nick points out. Harry helpfully hooks his fingers in the waistband and tugs while Nick scoots farther onto the bed. Nick never got around to getting his shoes off, so Harry doesn’t bother taking them farther than his knees. His cock’s out now and that’s the important part. Harry’s on it, mouth first, before Nick can catch his breath.  
   
“Jesus, Harold,” Nick gasps. “Those guys in the club get you all hot and bothered with what they wanted to do to you in the gents’?”  
   
 “No,” Harry says, though it’s not very clear, what with how his mouth’s full at the moment. He pulls off, keeping a hand moving on Nick’s growing hardon. “You,” he says, looking up Nick’s body. “Everyone in that club was staring at you all night. See-through shirt. Wanted to blow you under the decks.”  
   
“Oh,” Nick says, and Harry likes how his voice wobbles on the word. Nick’s usually the one making Harry feel wobbly, but Harry’s starting to learn some tricks of his own. He’d keep up the dirty talk, but Nick’s all-the-way hard now, and Harry’s on a mission.  
   
When he’s gagging for it, Harry doesn’t need much—if anything—in the way of prep, but he learned the hard way that spit isn’t any where near enough slick, so he stretches across Nick’s chest—pausing to enjoy the scrape of fabric on his nipples and on the head of his dick—and gropes in the bedside drawer for the lube. He skips the condom. They mostly still use them even though they’ve both tested clean, just because it’s less messy, but tonight Harry wants messy. The bottle, full when Harry got home from tour, is almost empty. He should have bought the bigger one. There’s enough for what he wants though, and with Nick watching wide-eyed, Harry squirts some into his palm and smears it on Nick’s dick.  
   
“I’ll just lie here, will I?” Nick says when Harry reaches back to slick his hole.  
   
“Lie back and think of England,” Harry agrees, straddling Nick’s hips.  
   
Nick’s not one for letting Harry do _all_ the work, though, so it’s no surprise when Nick grips Harry’s waist, slides his palms over Harry’s hips, tries to guide him like Harry’s not sure where to go. “You suck at lying back and taking it,” Harry says.  
   
“This can’t be news, popstar,” Nick answers, but he stops being so pushy, just resting his hands on Harry’s hips.  
   
“Not,” Harry says, and he has to kiss him suddenly, the need even stronger than the need to sink down onto his dick. He must move faster than Nick’s expecting because he ends up swallowing a squeak of surprise.    
   
Nick’s not surprised for long though, taking control of the kiss, moving a hand to Harry’s head, using the other for leverage to pull Harry closer. Harry melts against him, grinding against Nick’s belly and twisting his head against the tug on his hair, knowing that will get Nick to pull harder just like Harry loves. It does, gets Nick’s hand moving down Harry’s back too, fingers teasing at his hole, rubbing through the lube but not pushing in. Harry writhes, wanting it, trying to get Nick to finger him, but Nick’s a teasing bastard, and just skirts farther away, sliding down to rub Harry’s balls, tease the base of his cock. 

“Gnnngh,” Harry complains around Nick’s tongue, doubling his efforts to get Nick’s fingers inside, but Nick takes his hand away completely, and then Harry feels Nick’s cock pressed up between his cheeks. And yeah. That’s what he wants. To open himself with Nick’s dick. And this is why he buys the expensive lube. Doesn’t dry out like the cheap stuff if he gets distracted kissing. 

Pushing himself up with palms flat on Nick’s shoulders, Harry shimmies down so he’s in a better position to lower himself on Nick’s cock. “Gonna ride you,” he reminds Nick as he pushes Nick’s hand out of the way and takes hold of the shaft himself. Nick’s best at getting them started when he can actually see what he’s doing and control the movement. Harry’s better at— _yeah_. “Fuck,” he breathes, exhaling all the way, relaxing as much as he can against the blunt press of Nick’s cock. Nick’s hands are back on his waist, but soft this time, thumbs rubbing soothingly at the taut skin of his belly. Harry’s face breaks into a smile at that, at the fond and a little bit nervous look on Nick’s face, and—not for the first time—that’s the secret, his whole body opening with his grin and he sinks down, an inch, two, hitches his hips, and Nick slides in until Harry’s arse is resting on his thighs. 

The grin’s knocked off Harry’s face with the sensation, how full he feels, but the happiness is still bubbling up in his chest, the giddy delight at being home again, where he doesn’t have to get off on his own fingers, other hand around his dick, laptop balanced precariously on his chest if he wants to see Nick’s face. Rocking a little, he reaches out and rubs Nick’s ribs through his shirt, getting lube on it, stretching it more tightly across Nick’s chest, until he can see the texture of his hair through the cloth. “God, I love this,” Harry chokes out, voice strained. 

“I’m,” Nick gasps, squeezing Harry’s hips like he needs him to move. “I’m getting that.” 

Letting Nick take some of his weight, Harry lifts up a few inches and back down, up again, rolling his hips to get just the right angle. Nick’s hips follow him on the third roll up, and Harry smacks his left nipple. Not nearly as hard as Harry would like it if the tables were turned, but plenty hard enough for Nick to take notice. “Oi,” Nick protests. 

“My show,” Harry explains, sitting his arse down hard enough to pin Nick to the bed. “I’m gonna fuck myself on your cock, and come all over that shirt of yours, and then you can fuck me however you want.” 

“That so?” Nick says, but Harry can feel his thighs go tense with the effort to keep himself on the bed, so he’s clearly gonna play along. They don’t do it often—Harry’d much rather get told than do the telling nine times out of ten—but Nick hasn’t argued yet the times Harry’s decided he wants to be in charge, and Harry gets off even more knowing Nick lets him do this, that he wants Harry to make the decisions sometimes. 

“That’s so,” he agrees, starting up the rocking motion again, the one that gets Nick’s dick rubbing just right inside him. “That’s—“ slow slide up— “So—“ drop down. “‘Aatsss—“ up— “So—“ and down. The words keep spilling out as he moves, getting more and more slurred as he lifts almost off Nick’s cock completely, punching out of him as he’s filled up again, thick-hot friction driving him crazy. 

His eyes are on Nick’s chest, the spread of his fingers there, distorting the fabric of Nick’s tee, darker between his pecs where sweat has seeped through. Nick’s murmuring something, the sound bleeding through whatever Harry’s saying now, probably not even words anymore, except maybe he’s asking Nick to touch him, because Nick takes a hand from his waist and wraps it around his cock, not even jerking him, just letting the motion of Harry’s hips do the work, and fuck, it’s so fucking good, _so fucking good_ , Nick’s fat dick, and long, perfect fingers, and the teasing patch of hair stood out in relief against that damn shirt that no one could keep their eyes off all night. 

Harry’s legs start shaking, his abs jumping, and if it weren’t for the threadbare protection his shirt provides, Nick would have claw marks on his chest, but Harry doesn’t notice, chasing his orgasm from where it’s lurking in his spine, the backs of his knees, the clench of his arse, but there it is, _there_ and holy fuck it’s _huge_ , and he misses the moment when his come soaks into Nick’s shirt, because he’s arched back, facing the ceiling, eyes closed and mouth open around the moan coming from the depths of his lungs. 

He jerks when Nick takes his hand off Harry’s cock, twitches when Nick wraps it around Harry’s ribs, steadying weight. “Holy fuuuuck—“ Harry gasps. Nick makes a sound of agreement while Harry hauls in air. 

“Still with me?” Nick asks. 

“Can’t hold myself up,” Harry answers truthfully. 

Nick does some kind of magic where he keeps hold of Harry and sits himself up with his legs hobbled by his jeans and pants. His dick slips out of Harry’s arse, but it’s still pretty impressive. Harry tries to tell him so, but he’s clinging to Nick’s shoulders and his face is buried in Nick’s neck, so the words are pretty muffled. “Still want me to fuck you however I want?” Nick asks. Harry clenches experimentally, and finds that he does, so he nods. 

“Laying you down, then,” Nick says, and they’re tipping sideways, Nick putting Harry on his back, then kneeling up to deal with his clothes. Harry keeps one hand fisted in the hem of his shirt, so he doesn’t try to take that off too. 

Once his legs are free, Nick positions himself between Harry’s thighs and leans over to kiss him on the mouth. “You’re fucking amazing, you know,” he says, nuzzling Harry’s cheek after. 

Harry smiles. “I know,” he says, because Nick always makes him feel amazing. It’s like a gift he has. 

“And modest with it,” Nick adds, nipping the point of Harry’s chin with sharp teeth. “Gonna fuck that grin off your face.” 

“Just try,” Harry says. 

Nick does his best, but the faster he fucks, the happier Harry is, until he’s laughing, great whooping sounds filling the room, drowning out the slap of skin on skin as Nick fucks Harry nearly hard again and finally comes, collapsing down on Harry’s heaving chest. 

“You are mental,” Nick says once he’s got his breath back, rolled over, and pulled Harry in for a cuddle. 

“Happy,” Harry corrects. 

Nick pushes his hair off Harry’s forehead and kisses it. “Don’t think this shirt is ever going to be the same,” he says. 

“S’okay. Don’t think you should wear it for anyone but me, anyway.” 

“That so?” 

“That’s so.” Harry rests his face on the sweat-and-jizz damp fabric, relishing the way it reeks of both of them, the way he’s sticky and slippery and gross and can feel Nick everywhere. 

Nick gives the top of his head a kiss and squeezes his arm. “Whatever you want, popstar.” 

Harry grins against Nick’s chest. “I know.”


End file.
